


Titanium White and the Coral Reef

by halfabreath



Series: August Prompt Free For All [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:48:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: Just two neurodivergent bros, chillin' in a twin bed, five millimeters apart cuz' they are gay.





	Titanium White and the Coral Reef

**Author's Note:**

> this was initially borne from the prompt "when words aren't enough" and then i just...kept going.

_ “I’m going to add a little bit more of the liquid whites just so it sticks out - easy, we just sort of let these come together. Look at that! All the warm colors and cool colors are playing together.”  _

Ransom freezes at the bottom of the steps, one hand wrapped around the door knob. The familiar cadence of Bob Ross’ soothing voice is flowing through the cracks around the attic door but Ransom feels anything but relaxed. He inhales once, exhales sharply, and digs his phone out of his pocket to send a text to his Hausmates. 

**Me:** CODE TITANIUM WHITE   
**Me:** THIS IS NOT A DRILL, WE HAVE A CODE TITANIUM WHITE  
**Lards:** oh no  
**Itty Bitty:** Going to get blueberries right now!!  
**Shitty:** fuck   
**Jaques:** What do you need?  
**Me:** let me get the lay of the land one sec

Ransom opens the door carefully, making sure it creaks loudly. It’s not good to surprise Holster when he’s in this state. His phone buzzes in his pocket but he ignores the steady vibrations as he makes his way towards the mound of blankets on Holster’s bed. He can see a tuft of blonde hair sticking out of one end and a bare foot at the other and he heads for the hair, kneeling on the creaky floorboards before reaching out to thread his fingers through the soft strands. Ransom scratches at Holster’s scalp, waiting, as Bob Ross beats the devil out of his brush. 

Holster shifts; the foot disappears back under the blankets as his face appears. There’s a red indent from the sheets on his cheek and his hair is pressed flat on one side. Ransom waits. His phone has gone still in his pocket. His fingers slip around the back of Holster’s skull to his jaw, rough with stubble. Ransom brushes his knuckles over the bristly hair, moving along the grain until Holster finally opens his eyes. His gaze drifts, unfocused, until Ransom moves close enough for his features to shift into a more defined blur instead of a smear of colors. 

“I really tried, Rans.” He mumbles, eyes falling shut again. Holster’s usually so careful, skilled from years of balancing his brain chemicals on his own, but even he can’t predict every valley he stumbles into every once in awhile. Some days are worse than others and some days are worse than those. There’s nothing Ransom can say to change his serotonin levels. 

“I know you did, Holtzy.” Ransom moves the laptop to the floor, turning up the volume so Holster will still be able to hear it. He slips a hand under where he approximates Holster’s shoulder is under the blankets and pushes him up, barely managing to wedge himself in the tiny twin bed before his friend’s weight settles over him. Holster shifts, moving this way and that with little annoyed huffs and a furrowed brow until he finds a comfortable position laying half on Ransom with his face tucked against his partner’s neck. Ransom cards his fingers through Holster’s hair again, scratching softly until the last of the tension bleeds away. There’s nothing he can say, but if Holster can try, he can, too. 

* * *

Adam Birkholtz is many things: a defenseman, a Jew, a student, a musician, a best friend, a boyfriend, Protector Supreme of the Oluransi Coral Reef System, a semi-closeted bisexual.  Holster is many things, and neurotypical is not one of them. He's also not organized, and there are only three things he's certain to do on a daily basis: floss, stretch, and take 300mg of Wellbutrin.

Floss, stretch, medicate.

He doesn't have to think about it anymore. It's like breathing, almost, since he'll definitely die if he stops doing that, too. He doesn't think as much about dying as he used to, he's happy to say, but on days like these the notion of going to sleep and never waking up sounds enticing. Holster's not sure where his phone is but he gropes along the floor by his bed until he finds his laptop, so exhausted by the effort he has to take a break before opening it and pulling up the Youtube channel of Bob Ross episodes. Bob always makes him feel marginally better, and Holster knows firsthand just how vital that margin can be. He selects a random episode and settles back in the blankets, letting the soothing cadence of Bob's voice wash over him. The weight in his chest doesn't disappear, but it does decrease. 

Holster's not sure how many episodes he watches before the door creaks open and Ransom slowly makes his way up the steps. Holster couldn't tell you what time it is, what he's wearing, or which way is up, but he knows it's Ransom's steps he hears. The steps get closer and then cool fingers brush through his hair. Holster shifts under the covers until the blankets fall away from his face. Ransom’s cool fingers travel over his cheek and jaw in soothing patterns as Ransom waits for him to speak. 

“I really tried, Rans.” He admits. Tried to get out of bed, tried to email his professors to explain, tried to text Ransom for help, tried to do anything but this. 

“I know you did, Holtzy.” Ransom says, and then he’s climbing into the small bed. Holster lets himself be moved, barely able to scrape together the coordination to shift his weight towards the wall and then back when his partner is settled. 

Ransom’s warm and solid beneath him, comforting even in his silence. They lay together for a long time, listening to Bob Ross describe happy trees and calm skies. Holster buries his face in Ransom’s neck, relieved he doesn’t have to wallow alone. He feels so ashamed on days like these, lazy and useless, unable to perform even the simplest tasks by himself. They both know there’s nothing Ransom can say to convince him otherwise; there’s nothing he’ll believe while he’s in this state. Instead, Ransom drags his fingertips up and down Holster’s spine and presses his lips against Holster’s forehead when he gets restless. 

It’s only after the third kiss that Holster lifts his head to gaze up at Ransom blearily. “Can I ask you a question, and will you give me an honest answer?” Holster asks, voice rough from disuse, resting his chin on Ransom’s chest. Ransom nods and pushes back the hair that’s flopped onto Holster’s forehead. “On a scale of one to ten, how bad do I smell?” 

Ransom laughs, the contractions of his muscles shaking Holster up and down in small bursts. “Six point six seven, but let’s just say that in the years I’ve known you, you’ve smelled better but also worse.” Ransom replies fondly, brushing his thumb over Holster’s cheekbone. 

Holster hums, dipping his head in a little nod. “That’s what I thought.” He lays back down, settling his head on Ransom’s chest as he gathers the energy to finally push himself up into a sitting position. He groans while he does it but he  _ does it _ , and then Ransom’s standing before him, offering his hand, and as tired as Holster is he’s never going to leave Ransom hanging. He clasps their hands together and lets Ransom pull him to his feet, only stumbling forward a little as his muscles adjust to the sudden change. Ransom steadies him and guides him downstairs, pushing him into the bathroom gently. 

Days like these don’t happen often, but they have enough experience to have an established routine. Holster strips off his clothes while Ransom turns on the shower and adjusts the temperature. When Holster steps under the warm spray Ransom doesn't come in with him - they'd discovered it's impossible for both of them to fit in the small space their Frog year, when they'd attempted to hide together during a particularly intense game of hide-and-seek - but his presence on the other side of the shower curtain is comforting. He hands Holster a towel once he shuts the water off and drapes another over his head. 

"Do you want to shave?" Ransom asks, rubbing the soft cloth over Holster’s hair until it’s dry. He chases the streams of water that trickle down Holster’s chest and stomach with the corner of the towel, drying him drop by drop. Sometimes, bearing the weight of Ransom’s considerable focus is overwhelming. Holster doesn’t feel worthy of the attention and brainpower Ransom devotes to him. Today, though, he’s just relieved he doesn’t have to worry about the little things - a stray drop of water, locating a pair of socks - tiny tasks that build up when even contemplating them is exhausting. 

Holster reaches around him to swipe his hand over the mirror, displacing the condensation in a broad streak so he can see his reflection. It’s blurry, just smears of color on a foggy backdrop, but he watches as Ransom turns and places a hand on his cheek. He leans into the contact as Ransom guides him closer, rocking up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Do you want me to shave?” He asks, unable and unwilling to decide. 

“It’s like the playoffs came early,” Ransom murmurs with a little shake of his head, and that, at least, makes Holster’s lips twist up in a crooked half-smile. His hand glides down Holster’s neck and torso, skimming over his damp skin until it settles on his hip, just above where he’s wrapped the towel. Ransom tugs lightly, insistent, until Holster turns to face him. He glances back at the mirror, watching as the condensation spreads over their reflections. “Babe,” Ransom says, squeezing his hip to get his attention. Holster’s gaze sweeps back around, settling on Ransom’s face, and Holster leans in closer until his features come into sharp focus. “If I go get us some dinner will you find that episode of Golden Girls I like?” Ransom’s ploy is paper thin but Holster nods anyway and wanders up to their room with an almost-smile ghosting over his lips. 

By the time he’s dried himself completely (which mostly involved sitting on the edge of his bed until he air dried), changed (into Ransom’s clothes), and located the episode (in about thirty seconds, the most efficient he’s been all day), Ransom has returned with two burritos, chips, and a container of guac the size of Holster’s hand. They get chip shards all over Holster’s blankets and Ransom has to take off his shirt after a devastating sour cream explosion but when they lay together, trading salsa-warm kisses as  _ Thank You for Being a Friend _ plays in the background, Holster thinks he could add this to his routine.

Floss, stretch, medicate,  _ be. _


End file.
